


Bitter Night

by TwinKats



Series: KinkMeme Fills [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Awkward boys are awkward, Gen, Somnus is a Dick, The Lucii are dicks, Time Travel, all hurt and some comfort maybe?, attempted time travel fix-it, everyone are dicks, how do comfort when you are the one who broke it?, noctis breaks the world, shit happens and its not good, take one, the comfort has not yet arrived, welcome to pain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2020-03-13 12:18:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18940801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinKats/pseuds/TwinKats
Summary: He hadn't known what he was doing. All he knew was that he felt bitter in this endless night--bitter that the story needed to end likethis. It felt like the Bad Ending and--well, Noctis hated getting Bad Endings in his games. He refused to.So Noctis refused.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for [FFXV KinkMeme](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/5690.html?thread=11601978#cmt11601978) which requested Noctis time-travel fix-it to save Ardyn from Angelgard. So here it is.
> 
> In a way worse manner than I bet OP thought would happen. Whoops?
> 
> I'll just...scurry back over to The Path Untrodden now...nevermind me!

None of the blows that tore into him from the Kings of Yore left behind a physical wound, much like each of the thirteen royal arms that he’d taken into his armiger had left behind little truth of their presence aside from a coldness in his breast and a pain that ached deeper than any sort of physical thing Noctis felt before. That didn’t mean the blows did not hurt—the pain of them was so profound that Noctis found himself in a struggle to breathe. He could barely lift his own head, let alone grasp at his father’s sword with fingers that felt fat and weak.

Somehow, and Noctis could never quite be certain how he succeeded at it, he dragged the sword over to where the ghost of his father stood—the first to respond to his summons, the last to strike the blow. Befitting, perhaps, that his father would be the one in the end. He couldn’t look at the man, just as he didn’t doubt his father couldn’t look at him. Noctis hadn’t anticipated this all those years ago, as he stood in front of the citadel with a smile on his lip and a bow to his King. He wondered if Regis knew.

_Did you know, dad?_

Noctis hand shook and he fought to get the breath in his lungs to speak, but eventually he got the words out even as the tears he fought so hard to hold off began to drip down his cheeks. “Dad.” The sword never felt so heavy in his grip. His palm was wet and struggled to keep a grip against the hilt. He could hear the blade tremble against the stone from where he dragged it.

_Did you know that it would come to this?_

He needed his father to finish it. Noctis needed all thirteen—and Regis was the _last_. He was his father first and foremost, his King second—but he was of the Lucii now. Neither of them wanted this, Noctis knew, but he was the only one left and he _needed_ this. Noctis sucked in a breath through lungs that refused to work and weakly uttered, “Trust in me.” His throat wanted to close up and he wanted to sob himself sick.

_Finish it, dad, please. I’m so tired. Just…_

Noctis found the strength to pull back when the blade left his grip. He forced himself as upright as he could make it even as he felt the ghost of his father fade from his side. He raised his gaze up his father’s Lucii form and felt the last of his breath hitch in his throat. The man was formed of crystal fire, but it was so utterly his father there. The motion of the blade held aloft, to the design of the armor.

_…finish it_.

The sword pierced home with the groan of metal in a way that _hurt_ unlike each of the other blows. This one was physical, Noctis knew—the sacrifice demanded of him to end the blight upon the Star. He understood that even as he felt his breath tear from his lungs with a wet sort of gasp, as he felt his father’s soul nestle back into the ring and take with it the light that had tried to burn his eyes out. Noctis felt the magic slip from him then, through his grasp and his fingers even as he slumped over with a second, wheezed breath of pain.

Death hurt, Noctis knew it would. He knew it would hurt the minute he held that very ring in his hand after Leviathan—after Luna—and he knew it the first moment he placed it home upon his finger. He could feel the way the Lucii dragged their tenterhooks into his very soul and Light. To be a King of Lucis was to be a sacrifice; it was all the Kings were, no matter their choices in the end. They were sacrifices and tools—and so when the power of the ring Called, Noctis stood at its epicenter freed from the mortal coil, but not freed from the pain of death.

The blade still dug itself into his chest, he could feel it, even as Noctis stared down into the gaping chasm of darkness within the depths of the ring. He made a promise to Ardyn; Noctis could remember it clearly as the man lay upon the ground with his own form slowly breaking into bits of miasma. He could remember all that Bahamut showed him—and the promise, as Ardyn died at his knees, even as he knew without a doubt that they were nothing more than pawns in a bitter feud between the Gods and Mortal Men. Ardyn didn’t deserve this. Noctis didn’t deserve this. The _world_ didn’t deserve this.

It felt like the Bad Ending in a long, drawn out story—and Noctis wanted to laugh at it all even if it hurt.

Noctis closed his eyes, let these thoughts suffuse him, and raised his hand up; he could feel his Ultima shift into place above him, and with a voice choked by his own blood Noctis uttered, “I’m sorry,” and threw the blade _down_.

* * *

 

If it was one thing no one expected, it was to have the walls of Angelgard suddenly tear open with the force of an Alterna as Ardyn lay entangled in his own chains. The force of the magic as it ripped through the ancient prison knocked Ardyn through the hair lightly, enough to feel each jagged edge of the blades through his skin tear something fresh and force him into wakefulness. He blinked into the darkness with a faint moan of pain even as the sudden pull of the magic cut off with the sound of a warp and the clatter of a blade upon the stone.

Ardyn could feel the body brush up against the chains that dug into his feet; he could fee the touch of fabric against his toes and fought to contain the hiss of breath at the gesture even as he tried to catch sight of whomever had been added to his prison now. Perhaps Somnus decided to give him a bedmate? Hah, wouldn’t that be a thought—his brother doing anything kind to him for once. It took a moment longer for Ardyn to readjust to the world in darkness after the bright lightshow of crystalline magic, but when he could—well.

The shape and form at his feet was familiar. Ardyn couldn’t see much, but he could hear the way the other man hissed and struggled for breath. He could hear hands scrapped against stone as the other man shifted and pulled away, as he brushed against Ardyn’s chains and pushed Ardyn to sway the faintest bit. Ardyn bit back another groan of pain and tried to focus on the dark head of hair of the man who fumbled backward and coughed—it sounded far wetter than anything rightly should, followed by fluid hitting the ground at Ardyn’s feet.

Blood, perhaps? Wouldn’t that be his luck. Some fool thrust in, only to die at Ardyn’s feet. A fool with dark hair, with magic—with a blade so familiar tossed to the wayside. Ardyn shuttered his eyes and tried to breath through the ragged thought that at his feet lay _Somnus_ —

_His little Somnus._

Somnus hadn’t always been such a shit; once he’d been a kind, if lazy thing. Before the Kingdom in its early stages came between them, before plague struck their lands—when they were children and it was only them. Ardyn and Somnus.

Ardyn _missed_ Somnus.

The form at his feet choked on pain and hissed through teeth as they tried to move themselves from being collapsed, to at least upon their hands and knees. Ardyn fought down the urge to start to whisper Somnus’ name—he got as far as, “S-Som,” before he clamped his voice behind his lips and closed his eyes.

Instead Ardyn listened as the other man’s breath hitched, a choked off, “I’m _sorry_ ,” reached his ears even as whomever it was at his feet— _Somnus—_ struggled until they leaned against the stone that blockaded Ardyn in with chains. He could hear the sound of fingers that dug into the dirt and grime as the body leaned heavily against the ancient ruin. He could feel wet puffs of breath against his bare calves and a hand weakly reached out and grasped at his ankles.

“Ar—dyn,” _Somnus_ gasped out, weak with the sound, fluid most-probably in his lungs with the way his breathing rasped and rattled loud in the darkness. Ardyn’s eyes snapped open again and stared down—down at impressionable, grey-blues and he felt bitterness choke upon him, in his throat—and the hand gripped at his ankles tightly.

Strongly.

Those grey-blue eyes turned a bright and deadly _pink_ and with a puffed breath and a snarled face with far more stubble than Ardyn could remember Somnus ever deciding to wear, Somnus ground out as if his throat were coated in glass, _“Shatter_. _”_

The chains shattered into light; the sudden loss of them dragged into his weight, pulled upon his muscle and through bone, left Ardyn with a cry of surprise. He crumbled to the ground and had half-a-second to hear Somnus utter, “ _Shit!_ ” before his head struck stone brick.


	2. Chapter 2

Everything hurt, Noctis could admit to that. It hurt in the way living hurt, and in the way dying hurt. It hurt with each struggle Noctis had to breathe, or the way his legs didn’t exactly want to work as he struggled to hold himself up against the edge of the stone and stared down at the crumpled form of Ardyn.

It also, Noctis began to notice, hurt less than it did when he first crashed into the ground at Ardyn’s feet. It hurt less the more he breathed and shifted closer to Ardyn. Each breath he took became less of a struggle, and he could see the faint edge of crystal flicker off the wound in his chest—a wound made out of his father’s blade, as it pierced him to his throne.

Noctis laughed, a bitter broken sound choked with his own tears as he leaned brokenly over the edge of stone brick and stared down at Ardyn. Ardyn who had only minutes early been strung up in familiar chains that burned sick in Noctis’ gut—strung up in a way that Noctis _knew_. He could see the Crystal still in the throne room and those black chains that pierced through it. The holes in Ardyn’s skin already were in the process of healing—dark miasma drifted off of the man as the skin nit closed, as he bled sluggishly from the old wounds.

They pierced his _hands_. Six, Noctis hadn’t realized the chains pierced Ardyn’s _hands_. No wonder the man wore his clothes like a shield, a mismatched set of nonsensical articles of clothing to keep the world away from the myriad of scars that lined his flesh. Noctis could see them now, as they closed up and left behind obvious puckered marks. Ardyn would be marred by the chains for the rest of his life.

Somnus really had been quite the utter _dick_ , hadn’t he? Gods, and Noctis had him to thank for his family lineage. Noctis buried his face against his arm and choked down the hysterical laughter that wanted to burst out of him. Here he was, in _Angelgard_ , with a man so untouched by time—without backup, without friends, _denying destiny_. Ah, the utter height of foolishness. Already he could feel the Lucii tenterhooks tug within his very soul.

 _End it_ , they demanded, voices loud in cacophonous silence. _End it._

“Yeah,” Noctis wheezed, “ _no_.” The world whited out into noise for a bright second, pain that drag through him enough to pull out a gutted _scream_ until it burned back with bile in his throat. Noctis shuddered and choked into a gasp—

_ENOUGH—_

He cried, “ _Dad_ ,” because that was Regis’ voice, louder than the rest—and then blissful silence that left Noctis alone with just the ragged breaths of a man he just dropped from chains and the weight of his sinful decisions to defy the gods. Noctis sucked in a choked breath and began to drag himself over to Ardyn with nails dug through the dirt and rock until his fingertips bled. His legs laid useless behind him even as he reached out and grasped at Ardyn’s flesh.

It didn’t matter what he did now, merely that he had to—Noctis defied the gods, they needed to _leave_. He dragged himself upright, and then struggled to pull Ardyn up against him. The dead weight of the taller man took all of Noctis’ dimished strength to hold upright until he could lean the man with the edge of his shoulder shoved up underneath Ardyn’s armpit. Sweat beaded at Noctis’ brow, but he puffed a stronger breath than before and his lungs didn’t feel like they would half-collapse in upon themselves anymore, so he took that and the steadier breaths out of Ardyn as a good sign.

“Gotta…move….”

As far as dumb and impulsive ideas went, Noctis felt this one so far seemed to turn out rather well as he raised his other hand and tugged at his connection to Ultima until the blade flung from where it’d been tossed into the ground and back into his palm. It felt heavier in his hand, and Noctis utterly shook with the effort to hold it up, but he could vaguely see an edge in the darkness where light threatened to sliver in, and with all his strength flung Ultima out. He had half-a-second to tighten his grip on Ardyn’s waist before he dragged them both along the path of the blade and out into the moonlight.

Ardyn was completely dead weight, so when Noctis landed with his useless legs and the dead weight of Ardyn against his side, he crumpled to the ground with Ardyn atop him. The breath stole from his lungs with a wheezing gasp as six feet of muscle crashed down upon him. He struggled to shove the older man off—scrambled his hands against the bareness of Ardyn’s chest and shoved and heaved until he could roll himself away and roll Ardyn off him.

The sky was dark, but the moon shone down upon them and Noctis sucked in a deep and for once unbarred breath. He took in the sights, the smells, and the dizzying way he felt with his magic drained precariously as it was—and laughed. _Six_ , what had he been thinking? This night had dragged on, and on, and _on_ —and now Ardyn was here with him, unconscious and so-so— _young_. It struck Noctis how young Ardyn looked.

_Face soft, confused, hurt and at a loss—Ardyn stared at him as he told his story, the tale of the ‘Usurper King’ and his older brother—the Founder that never-was._

Noctis hadn’t paid much attention to Ardyn’s words, but then he’d had ten years to contemplate the way the man spoke—and the soft edged _pleading_ tone he’d spoken with. It struck Noctis how young Ardyn looked then, how soft his face and eyes had been—and reminded Noctis of the few times he’d seen the man without the face pinched in some fashion or form were _rare_. As Ardyn spoke of who he had been there was a gentleness that Noctis saw tucked away beneath the bitterness and hatred.

“You…” Noctis mumbled, and pointed a finger tiredly at the unconscious Ardyn, “…are a piece of shit.” He dropped the hand over his eyes and sighed. “And so am I. _Fuck_.”

* * *

 

The voices registered with a sort of distance; Noctis had spent a while with just his own breath and Ardyn’s on the rocky outcropping of Angelgard to rest. He couldn’t really do much of anything anyway except drag himself about, grasp at Ardyn’s dead weight, and fling Ultima around. Warping so often and so much after the night he had would drain him further, so Noctis waited and rested and regained his strength.

Maybe, also, Noctis tried to get his damned legs to move—to _feel_ —to do _something_ with frustrated tears and a bitter memory of a time when the world ended for an eight year old boy. The tenterhooks of the Lucii flexed with the memory, and a soft and soreness wound through his mind like static until the first of the voices registered with distance.

“It came from over here.”

“Are you sure? Isn’t that the entrance?”

“Fuck if I know, but do you want to risk it? What if it’s escaped?”

“Six damn it all.”

 _It?_ Noctis thought, and then frowned at the curl of bitterness and regret that flashed through him.

_I—_

_Dad?_

Half-a-second later there was a yell. “Adagium!”

Noctis rolled himself over and flung out his hand for Ultima in a flash. He dragged himself upward by his blade as best he could and then his eyes widened. The uniform was uniquely _Kingsglaive_ , but the men and women held back for half a second with their eyes trained upon—Ardyn. Noctis glanced to Ardyn, then glanced back to the Kingsglaive—and then to the ‘entrance’ behind them which was little more than a long and thin gap in the wall. He could see clearly the way that Ardyn would hang in the darkness, and then the sun would rise—and the light pierce through that little gap—

 _You tortured him_ , it struck Noctis like lightning. The light would hurt Ardyn, who rested in the dark and was surely more daemon than man some days. It would burn and ache—how Ardyn would _scream_. _You bastard. You tortured him._

“Get it back inside before it wakes!” another of the Glaive uttered and Noctis snapped his gaze back toward them.

_What?_

Something feral light inside him; he felt his hands tremble as he held Ultima while half-curled upright. Noctis’ lips curled back into a snarl—

“Who’s that beside it?”

“Doesn’t matter. Get it back inside _now!_ ”

— _hell no,_ he thought furiously. His mind already worked hard to figure out how these were Glaive, here, when Noctis had learned that the Glaive were born of his father’s idea. A way for the broken and destitute of Lucis to fight back, gifted with the King’s magic—and then the thought that if these were Glaive then that meant they were here upon orders of the _throne_.

_Did you know?_

Silence; the tenterhooks upon his soul eased up and away. The Lucii backed off, and Noctis thrust Ultima into the ground and dragged himself inch by inch up the blade. He forced his legs to work as he pulled himself _tall_.

_Did you know, dad? Did you torture him? Did you continue this—this cruelty?_

The silence rang loud, louder than the Lucii’s earlier fury at Noctis’ utter refusal to ‘end it’ back within the cell. It rang with a truth that Noctis wanted to disbelieve, except the truth lay stark in front of his face. The ground sparked in front of him, mimicked his fury at the thought that his family—his entire _line_ —had been complicit in the torture of a man who once sought only to _heal_.

 _Does this make you happy, Somnus, to see what you’ve reduced us to?_ Noctis thought, bitter and fury and _spite_ all within him.

“Shit—the fuck is going on?!”

“Who is this guy?!”

“Can it—just take him down!”

A storm called and raged around them until Noctis finally, _finally_ , reached his full height and stood on unsteady legs that he couldn’t feel. His hands shook and he stared at the Glaive who refused to move closer, frozen by the strikes of lightning and electricity that seemed to surround Noctis and Ardyn—at the way the world lit purple-black with oppressive magic. Normally the feel of it would drive Noctis to his knees, but this time Noctis raised his head to the sky—to the storm—and _screamed_.

“ _DID. YOU. KNOW?!_ ”

The sky’s parted, and the Fulgurian stared back.


	3. Chapter 3

Out of all Astrals only one never demanded anything of Noctis. Only one of the Six didn’t speak to him in riddles or set forth a challenge that he near couldn’t complete or tried to kill or devour him. Only one, aside from perhaps the Draconian, did not sleep and require Lunafreya to waken—and Noctis felt all the more grateful toward the end that Luna hadn’t needed to commune with Ramuh; needed to begin to forge a Covenant for Noctis with the Fulgurian. Noctis didn’t want to imagine what the lightning would’ve done to her if she had needed to—how it would’ve soaked into her bones and blood and left her with tremors. Noctis could remember the feel of it as it lit him alight, the buzz beneath his skin as the storm raged around them—a little like _home_ , really.

Now—now that silence burned like a sickness in Noctis as he stared, and stared, and Ramuh stared back. The clouds hung in the sky, but no storm followed the Stormsender. The men of Lucis kept back and away from the God, and the crackle of lightning that formed a clear line between Noctis, Ardyn, and them out of reverence or respect or _fear_ —Noctis didn’t care which. He cared for Ramuh to answer him. Angelgard had been a prison of Ramuh’s undertaking, or so the Cosmogeny would have Noctis believe. Angelgard was a place where Ramuh Judged, and all who were found wanting Perished and yet Ardyn alone remained chained, in the dark, and tortured with the light of the sun. Noctis wanted to know—viscerally and in a way he couldn’t explain—he wanted, no, _needed_ —

Noctis _needed_ to know—was Ramuh complicit? Did Ramuh know of what the line of Lucis had done to the First? Did Ramuh care that Ardyn—a healer chosen by the people, chosen by the Six, suffered for the crime of merely existing _now_? If Ramuh did how could he condone it—unless he ate up the same cock and bull story that the Draconian tried to feed Noctis in the Crystal, that the Glacian told to him with the touch of frost in her wake, so cold that one couldn’t even _think_. Ramuh kept his silence and it burned with Noctis.

“STORMSENDER!” Noctis roared. “ANSWER ME!”

The Glaives whispered, shocked, but Noctis ignored them. He kept bright, pink eyes upon the God even as his strength wavered and his hands shook. His legs were numb and he wanted to fall—to crumble to the ground and cry because this? _This, here?_ This was not the Lucis he thought to inherit. He knew that Ardyn had been wiped from history—there was no record of Somnus Lucis Caelum ever having a brother except in the deepest, darkest pits and tombs long forgotten. History ignored Ardyn and remembered only the Accursed—remembered _Adagium_. It set wrong with Noctis, that bitter pill of truth that his family had essentially removed such a crucial part of their history—and why? Why had the Founder denied the First? It made no sense, to Noctis, to write a man out of history so completely.

Ramuh bowed his head, and then reached a hand down, gaze settled on Noctis first, and then alighted upon Ardyn’s downed form with a sluggishly bleeding headwound. Noctis tensed, ground his teeth together, and let out a sharp, “YOU WILL NOT TOUCH HIM!”

Ramuh paused. For a second there was blissful silence, and then the storm rumbled on the distance and the God settled back. He blinked lazily down at Noctis and Noctis felt only grateful that there were no words, like the Archeon, that trembled through his mind and left him with a blazing headache that sparked on the edge of seizing. He felt grateful that there was no cold to draw his mind into a sluggish haze, or water with which to drown him followed by the high, cackling nature of the Astrals’ first language—or even Ifrit’s fire as it burned around and through him. Ramuh’s words were as silent as the god himself—but they were there. Noctis could _feel_ them, like impressions in the blood.

Ardyn was not guilty, Noctis realized, which alone was the reason why the man still stood and Ramuh did not reign down Judgement upon him. He could not interfere within the prison elsewise—it was for mortals to do, to take the innocent from this place once affirmed that they would not be Judged, and it was the mortals that failed. None stepped on the island now as Ramuh would find them wanting anyway—since they refused to treat upon a man as a man, and instead signaled him daemon. Noctis wondered if Ramuh alone could’ve wiped Ardyn away if he cast down his Judgement, if Ardyn were truly within the wrong, where the Glacian could freeze and shatter the man only for him to return healthy, hale, and otherwise unharmed.

Noctis glanced to Ardyn and then back to Ramuh. “Are you certain?” he asked, voice softer, hoarser. His palms were sweaty around his blade and slipped along the hilt for a second. It jerked Noctis downward and nearly undid his precarious balance. Ramuh leaned forward and Noctis looked to Ardyn again, and then back to the God of Storms. A second later Noctis closed his eyes and murmured, “Very well,” and the God reached out. Noctis did not fight the hand that grasped him, even as his strength left him. He did not fight as the God pulled him up and into the Storm that now began to pelt the ground below.

 _Sleep_ , whispered the winds, and Noctis found himself so very tired. He felt uncomforted to let his life rest in the hands of any of the Six—but Ramuh was the Storm and the Storm was in Noctis’ blood, even if he knew so very little of it. There was a reason why Ramuh deigned not to send a test after the King of Light beyond to seek out his sigils in the storm, the signs of his presence to awaken the lightning in his blood.

Noctis drifted, and then slept.

* * *

 

 _King of Light, Son of Storms, Chosen to Right the Wrongs Past—_ the words echoed like a lazy haze when Noctis woke up, surrounded by heat and warmth. He knew within a second that he was not upon Angelgard, or within Lucis, the minute he opened his eyes and gazed at the simple furnishings above him. There were suncatchers of the likes that Noctis could remember a scant few times in the poorer districts of Insomnia—and tangles of beaded twine that hung around them, near the window. Outside Noctis could see green and light—and he pushed himself upward to sit for a moment, the stared down at his legs when they refused to initially move.

“Right,” Noctis mumbled. He’d forgotten the sudden paralysis that came after his foolhardy decision to _fuck Bahamut_ and his _shitty destiny_. Granted Noctis had never thought his ability to walk would last forever—whatever Lady Sylva had done to grant him return of his legs would not be permanent, not after a year of damage left to fester. There were times were Noctis found he couldn’t even use them, although often the pain and immobility were temporary.

With a tired sigh Noctis grabbed one leg, and then the other, and moved them over toward the edge of the bed. He tried to look around the room, to find a way more dignified than a crawl to get from the bed to the door, but nothing jumped out at him. Noctis bit his lip and scowled with the pent-up feeling of frustration that curdled in his gut. Just when he finally began to work himself past the sting to his pride at the thought that he must drag himself to the door, it swung open.

The woman on the other side of the door had a dark head of thick hair wrapped into a loose singular braid over her shoulder. Noctis could count within three flat coins that were attached to the tie at the end of the braid. Her eyes were wide in surprise, faint age lines drawn thin as everything about her seemed to stretch—and then she huffed and set the basket down.

For a second Noctis hadn’t even realized the woman had spoken, until she repeated her words in clear and concise Lucian, “How are you feeling?”

Noctis eyed her, let his lip go from between his teeth, and then breathed out heavily. The woman took this as a response, hummed lightly, and looked him over shrewdly. She bent over and began to rummage through the basket until she pulled out a cloth and a jar—sweetwater, Noctis realized when the faint lavender and berry scent hit his nose—and carefully dipped the cloth before she reached out with her hand.

“May I?”

Noctis cautiously inclined his head. With a smile the woman shifted closer and began to drag the cloth down his arm from his elbow. Noctis watched the motion and felt the faintly magical touch of the water like little pinpricks of energy. After a second Noctis dragged his gaze back toward her face. He waited until she moved onto his other arm before Noctis asked, “Which island?”

It didn’t take much for Noctis to place where he was; the little charms, beads, and coins coupled with the sweetwater told him everything he needed to know really. The fact that he had drawn upon Ramuh when he was dangerously close to stasis—after already pulling on his connection with the Glacian to frost over Ardyn’s chains—left Noctis with little worry about where he found himself. Instead what really worried him now was where _Ardyn_ was. Obviously not in this room—obviously—

“The Stormsender brought you to the mainland,” the woman said lightly. “It has been three days. Your brother still yet sleeps.”

Noctis blinked. _Brother?_ She meant Ardyn; she had to have meant Ardyn. Thinking about it they did look a bit like brothers—although Ardyn wore the stain of the Scourge on his skin. If Noctis ignored that, imagined the man with dark hair and pale blue eyes, he could see the resemblance that two-thousand years and a hundred generations couldn’t quite erase. Beyond even that weren’t they brothers, in a way? Chosen tools of Bladekeeper and his vaunted Prophecy and all of that utter nonsense that made Noctis want to curl his lips into a sneer.

Instead the King of Light looked over the woman and let none of his festered thoughts show on his face. “He’s alright?” Noctis asked, voice faint, and he tilted his head to the side as the woman moved to rub the cloth along his neck. It brought the faintest curl of an uncomfortable grimace to his face, and he debated the merit of telling her to just _stop_ —but the water felt nice against his skin and he could see the stubborn look in the faint lines on her face.

“He rests,” she said, dipped the cloth back into the sweetwater, and rubbed at the other side of Noctis’ neck. “Although not peacefully.”

Noctis sighed and tilted his head the other direction. He said a short, “Thank you,” aware that it edged just toward the side of being rude. The woman clucked her tongue and Noctis continued, “Madam…?” and he left the sentence leading as she pulled back and looked him up and down.

“Ulric,” Madam Ulric said, faintly approving. “Celestia Ulric.” Carefully Madam Ulric packed away the sweetwater and cloth and got back to her feet. “My husband will be back from his Hunt shortly. I will come and collect you then.”

Noctis ducked his head down, then frowned as he tightened his grip on his legs. He still couldn’t feel it aside from maybe a faint pressure, and even then Noctis couldn’t tell if that was his legs or his hands really that he felt the pressure from. A second later Noctis sighed heavily.

“I…can’t walk.”

Madam Ulric eyed him, then nodded. “I will have a chair for you.”

“Thanks,” Noctis mumbled as the door closed.


	4. Chapter 4

Dinner brought in by the Ulric patriarch had been an awkward sort of affair at first. Noctis had been retrieved in a heavy, clunky wheelchair that he couldn’t hope to maneuver himself when his arms still shook from exhaustion. Celestia tried to apologize for the thing; she cited that a better craft would be brought in by the Ostium’s once they could commission it and Noctis tried to tell her that she needn’t bother except—well.

Except that she and Nox, her husband, had taken to calling him stormsent—a title for his appearance in the hands of Ramuh—in lieu of a name because Noctis couldn’t _think_ of one. They’d asked him, over dinner, what he preferred to be called and Noctis had floundered just the slightest bit with his voice caught in his throat. He couldn’t call himself rightly Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV given that he didn’t know who sat the Lucian throne at this time. Could there be a Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV in Lucis right now?

What about his father? Did Regis sit the throne? Was Aulea queen and pregnant with him? Or had she perished already? The thoughts churned in Noctis’ mind because he didn’t _know_. All he knew was what little he gleaned on Angelgard and that was the fact that the Glaive were there and they _shouldn’t have been_. The Glaive should not have known what rested on the island—his family shouldn’t have known—the Mystic was meant to have erased _all of it_ and instead Noctis knew and learned and understood that his family had been complicit all this time in the torture of someone who had been a _healer_.

The thought still burned sick in him even as he couldn’t voice a name—and so Nox just smiled and said, “Can’t remember it, son?” with utter kindness that Noctis burned from the shame of it. His face flushed and he—nodded.

Better that they think he’s forgotten his own name, Noctis felt, than to struggle with what identity was really his in this time and place. He was the King of Light, he knew his own name—but did it count as _his_ in this place? Noctis couldn’t be certain of anything anymore and so he bottled the shame up and away even as it curdled in his gut.

The Lucii were silent on the whole matter, thankfully. Noctis couldn’t be certain how he’d fair of the Thirteen were to raise their own voices and opinions on the matter of the lies that he found piled up around him. So he moved on, accepted being called stormsent as it was _true_ in a manner of speaking, and Nox continued with his questions and Noctis stuck to short answers that he knew he could provide.

“Do you remember that fella you came with?” Nox asked.

“Ardyn,” Noctis said.

“He your brother?”

“Yes.”

Celestia brought them soup and Noctis ate; it was a hearty and thick sort of stew made with a tangy meat that reminded Noctis of the feel of lightning in his veins. It came from a couerl Nox explained with a heavy laugh at Noctis’ wide-eyed shock. Couerl’s were the patron of the Ulric House, Noctis learned. Each Son of Ulric learned to Hunt them or die trying, just as each Daughter of Ulric learned to harness the might of the Storm.

“Do you have any children?” Noctis questioned as Celestia took his plate away. He smiled at her in thanks, although Nox shook his head.

“Not yet. Not for a few years, at least,” Nox said lightly. “We’ll have our kits when the Storm decides.” They moved on to drinks and talked a for a little while longer until Noctis found himself drifting. He was still exhausted from the magic spent, and it was obvious enough for Celestia and Nox to notice.

 “Summoning a God can take a lot out of a person,” Nox said lightly as he brought Noctis back to his room. Noctis eyed him, surprised, but Nox ended the night with a, “Rest easy, stormsent. You and your brother are safe here.”

They were; Noctis understood that. He rested easy that night, and the next, and the next after that.

* * *

 

Dreams were a reprieve; even the nightmares were better than the reality that awaited Ardyn when he woke. In his dreams Aera could still kiss him; they could be together in his dreams where life denied him Aera. In his dreams Somnus could be the child that Ardyn remembered fondly—just as easily as he could be the monster that Ardyn knew.

“You deserve this,” Somnus hissed—and bitterly all Ardyn could feel was utter relief that he could remember what Somnus looked like, _sounded_ like.

Ardyn couldn’t remember his own mother anymore. He couldn’t remember the way the sun felt, or how the light shined upon the city whenever he returned from a pilgrimage. He could barely remember the way Aera spoke to him, or her passions in regards to ancient Solheim—he couldn’t recall how they met anymore, or her preferred flower, or if they’d ever actually visited Steyliff together in the dead of night as teenagers or if that’d been a dream too. Ardyn could feel so much of himself slip away through the years.

To remember Somnus—to remember Aera—even in horrible moments like _this_ were an utter relief. Ardyn couldn’t even find it in himself to wake up from his own nightmares anymore. He stayed on his knees next to Aera with the white of his tunic stained red and the knife in his hand, as Somnus leaned over his shoulder and hissed in his ear about what a _monster_ he was.

Somnus moved around him, a frown tugged on his lips and his brow furrowed—and Ardyn raised his gaze up to his brother who stared at him with a look of utter contempt that it brought a bitter smile to his face. The scene wavered, briefly. Aera’s body faded into wisps of sunlight; the blood misted off his clothes and the knife until Ardyn found himself on a picnic blanket with Somnus in the summer field outside of their city.

Ardyn couldn’t remember the colors of the flowers, or the blooms in the tree. Everything washed a faint blond-gold of Aera’s hair, intermixed with the white of her dress while Somnus pouted at him, arms crossed over his chest dressed in blacks and blues befitting of the second son. Ardyn’s gaze dropped to the knife in Somnus’ hand, which his brother stabbed into the picnic blanket with a huff of frustration.

“You aren’t even _reacting_ ,” Somnus ground out, and Ardyn tilted one shoulder in a shrug.

Was this the dream? Or his reality? Ardyn couldn’t tell anymore, really. It all blended together as time passed around him. Perhaps that was why he didn’t wake from his nightmares anymore as they’d become his new reality. Or was reality the dream he hadn’t known he lived? Ardyn leaned back and tilted his head up toward the sky, the sun—it felt like nothing.

What did the sun feel like, Ardyn wondered? Had he ever known? One hand reached out and plucked a small piece of fruit—a grape, Ardyn thought, but like everything in this space it lacked any sort of taste. Still Ardyn chewed on it, suckled at it even as the juice flowed into his mouth as tasteless as water. Somnus poured himself a goblet of wine and scowled into the cup.

“I had a dream,” Ardyn said, “that you were in my prison.”

Somnus snorted disdainfully. “As if I would visit you.”

Ardyn looked down at his own goblet in hand—had it not been a knife seconds before, and the wine in the cup reminded him of the blood of the Oracle that stained his hands. He hummed, thoughtfully.

“You used to, I think,” Ardyn said into the silence. Ardyn’s brow furrowed down as he tried to recall—but memory slipped through his fingers like water and blood. Some stuck to his hands, the rest flowed away and out of him like some sort of wound that oozed and festered with infection.

“Delusional,” Somnus waved a hand and Ardyn looked over at his brother, watched the way Somnus took a drink of his wine. He watched as it stained his lips red and dripped down his chin like blood from a cut. Somnus fingered the cup, his face softer as he stared off into the middle distance. “But,” Somnus murmured, “not incorrect.”

“You were dying, Som,” Ardyn tilted his cup and watched the blood pour out of it and down onto the picnic blanket. It stained the white red flowed into rivers and landscapes that escaped him; a memory of a map long forgotten into the dregs of ichor black that stained his soul. “You were in my prison and dying.”

Somnus rolled his eyes heavenward. “As if I would see you in the end.”

Ardyn rolled his shoulders and tilted one into a shrug again. “It was a dream,” Ardyn said.

“A poor one.”

Ardyn smiled, a bitter sort of thing even as he said, “Is it really?”

Somnus pressed Ardyn down, a snarl to his lips as his eyes bled black and his hands wrapped around Ardyn’s neck. Ardyn couldn’t breathe—he wondered if he ever breathed really—even as Somnus leaned forward and grasped the knife in the darkness by Ardyn’s ear. The words chittered like the daemons in the night that cackled and clamored for attention.

 _I prefer these sorts of dreams_ , Somnus said without words as black dripped from him and poured into Ardyn’s eyes and his mouth—it choked him and drowned him into it until he couldn’t breath and his body jerked in the throughs of death. _I prefer you like this, abomination._

“S-Som—” Ardyn wheezed, and then the knife slammed home into his heart—this was new—this was—it _hurt_. The wound burned and Ardyn could feel himself _burning_ from the inside out. He thrashed and gasped as his heart jackhammered against the blade that pierced it—fluttered and flickered until—

Ardyn jerked and rolled off the edge of a bed. He landed elbows first onto the ground, knees a quick second, and all the air rushed out of his lungs and diaphragm as he toppled down onto his side last. He wheezed and bit off a scream that pierced him as his back burnt with fires of pain. Dazedly Ardyn thought— _oh, that’s my hip_.

He blinked. _That’s my **hip**_ **.** Ardyn stared at the walls—wooden, _real_ and something he couldn’t have dreamed of because he couldn’t even really remember what the sight was until he could _see it_. Those were wood walls and that burning pain was his _hip_. The field and the hurts that he felt were almost always emotional and never had anything to do with his hip of all things. His hip was an old hurt; his nightmares focused on the most recent of things—Aera and Somnus and the Scourge—not his _hip_.

Ardyn pressed his hand into the ground. It felt _cold_ and _firm_ and there was a texture to it—little ridges and swirls of knots in the wood, the feel of the grain beneath his fingers even as he pushed himself up. He focused his weight onto his opposite side to alleviate the burn even as he parsed the things that should be impossible. Finally, once he found himself seated and panted for breath as he stared wide and wild eyed at his surroundings did it finally begin to sink in.

This was not the prison Somnus left him; this was not Angelgard and here Ardyn felt no chains in his flesh as numb as he’d grown to them. Was he awake, or dreaming once more? His dreams never had texture or feeling—they lacked color beyond Aera and Somnus. His hip never _burned_ in his dreams—and Ardyn clutched a hand to his chest as his heart jackhammered and his breath came in short bursts.

Awake; Ardyn realized it, he was awake and he was _free_ and none of it made a lick of sense. Could this be Somnus’ doing? A new form of torture, perhaps? A new nightmare to tease Ardyn with? How could he be certain except that this was _new_? There were scents in the air that Ardyn didn’t recognize; a sweet and tangy sort of smell, intermixed with something heavy that made his stomach roil just the littlest bit in rebellion.

The next thing Ardyn noted were the voices, muffled through the walls that they were. One of them he recognized and his breath hitched in the realization because— _Somnus_. The lower register of the two voices was _Somnus_. His hands shook enough that he clenched them tight into the fabric of his breeches—which resulted in their own startled surprise because the cloth was softer than Ardyn realized. It wasn’t wool, and it wasn’t the cotton Ardyn was used to—or the silks that they would wear for very specific occasions. It was plush and soft and Ardyn’s hands trembled for a different reason than Somnus voice—this time out of wonder as he ran his fingers along the material in surprise.

“What devilry…” Ardyn murmured, lips parted out of surprise and he found himself fascinated by the color—a deep maroon, how befitting and bemusing to think about; still naming me _heir_ then, _brother?_ —Ardyn almost missed the sound of the handle on the door being turned.

His head jerked up; the pale red of his hair blocked his vision for a half-second as he blew it away with the air from his lungs—it didn’t hurt to _breathe_ what a _marvelous thing_ —and then everything in Ardyn sort of stilled.

“ _Somnus_ ,” tore from the fallen Monarch like blood from a wound because there was his _brother_ dressed in blues and blacks, seated upon a wheeled throne.

Somnus stared back, eyes wide, mouth parted in, and he said only a faint, “Oh,” in response.

Ardyn wanted to cry.


	5. Chapter 5

The bowl in Somnus’ lap had completely passed Ardyn by until Celestia Ulric pushed the throne into the room and Somnus settled the offering of food onto the counter table. Ardyn had eyes only for his brother and not the lady that moved him into the room, so he barely noted her presence aside from Somnus’ soft and stilted words of thanks.

“I will gather up the sweetwater and return,” the woman said, and Ardyn spared her half a glance from the floor when he saw the faint flush to Somnus’ cheeks even as he sat straight and stiff in his throne. She looked to him, a kind smile that wrinkled at the edges of her face, and then turned and shut the door to the room with a silent motion.

Ardyn looked back to Somnus and his hip throbbed hard enough to force him to grimace as he took in the sight of his brother almost greedily. How long had it been since he’d seen his little brother? Ardyn couldn’t recall the last time Somnus deigned him a visit in his prison, although his arrogance seemed to have grown in the intervening years given the wheeled throne his brother seated himself in. His hair was grayer, too—older, maybe, Ardyn thought given the haggard appearance and the scraggily facial hair. The Somnus in his memories had been meticulously clean shaven if only because every attempt at a beard was a patchwork of embarrassment.

The silence deafened the room, suffocated it—neither brother wanted to speak and Ardyn couldn’t fathom why Somnus kept his silence—why he stared at him with wide eyes and his skin so pale. This must simply be another form of torture, like the chains and the darkness that had been Ardyn’s companion for so long. Only Ardyn couldn’t understand the motivation here. Should he not have been left to rot? Had that not been Somnus’ intention when he’d bound him upon the prison island, guarded by the Gods and their fickle whims?

Somnus looked away first—as he should, Ardyn felt a little vindictive at that even as he shifted to get his weight off of his hip and more into a seated position on the ground. Being lower than his brother grated, but Ardyn didn’t trust his legs to hold him just yet and he refused to show a sign of further weakness to the man who cut him down so callously once before. Ardyn watched how Somnus busied himself with silverware and napkins with an almost nervous sort of tick to his movements.

“The soup is mostly broth,” Somnus said, voice softer and quieter than the Somnus that haunted Ardyn’s nightmares. He seemed almost timid— _afraid_.

Ardyn fought back a sneer. “To poison me with?”

The sharp glance Somnus gave him in response was full of anger and gritted teeth. Somnus’ blue-grey eyes flashed almost purple and it took all of Ardyn’s meagre self-control to bite back the seething burst of Scourge beneath his skin.

“I got you _out_ of there, I’m not trying to damn well kill you,” Somnus ground out.

“Out of my prison from whence you had me chained?” Ardyn laughed, a bitter cloying thing in his throat. “To come and gloat now, have you? With food and kindness while you sit upon a wheeled _throne?_ Yes, brother, I know you don’t aim to kill me— _you’ve already tried after all_.”

The muscle in Somnus’ cheek twitched and his hands clenched into fists in his lap. With a sharp hiss of breath Ardyn watched as Somnus moved his hands to grasp at the wheels, white knuckled. His arms shook as he shoved the throne away from the counter and back, forced it to move by the clunky design of the wheels on either side. They weren’t positioned for someone to grasp easily—thin and small structures that they were. Ardyn watched this, and watched how Somnus remained stiff backed in the chair—it reminded Ardyn of when they were children before Ardyn could understand his gift to _take_ well enough to help—and he detested the worry that gnawed in his gut.

“It’s a wheel _chair_ ,” Somnus said eventually. “Not a fucking _throne_.” He scrubbed his hand over his face and the stiffness eased bit by bit until Somnus slumped slightly. Ardyn watched the way Somnus forced himself to breath, to relax from the stiffness that took him the moment he saw Ardyn from that doorway. A grimace burst across his face—a tightening of his jaw that gentled, a narrowing of his eyes that softened with work and breath that could’ve been pained. Ardyn watched the emotions raced across Somnus’ face—pride, fear, resentment, desolation and so many more he couldn’t name, far too out of practice of reading Somnus these years apart.

Ardyn looked away and over to the soup; bitterness churned within him and he swallowed the faintest taste of bile as he said from the floor, “I do not hunger anymore.”

Somnus snorted out a bright, “ _Bullshit_ ,” and Ardyn glanced to him with narrowed eyes full of gold and a fevered tinge of sickness around the edges. It wasn’t a lie exactly—Ardyn had gone long enough without food to not feel the pangs of hunger anymore, although he felt the slightest bit faint and like his head were stuffed full of cotton and he _knew_ those feelings from a life of Before—

_—not enough food for rotten Solheimr rats; sneers and jeers and spits of disgust aplenty but food not so much. Not for two, not for young’uns, and definitely not for those who bore Solheimr so plain across their faces with dark hair and pale-as-ice eyes and magic that sparks at fingertips and makes the world bleed in royal purples. Enough for one, though yes, and so he goes without because the slighter of them needs more and needs must after all. He knows the bite of hunger, but he refuses to let the little dreamer know it too—_

“I do not need to eat, nor do I desire food, _Somnus_ ,” Ardyn sneered but the glance Somnus gave him—stern, distant, but something edged in the corners that wanted to steal Ardyn’s breath with how utterly _repentant_ it was—and Ardyn glanced down at his lap almost chastised as Somnus called upon his bluff.

“You can’t get to your feet,” Somnus said, voice back to soft although there was a bit of steel in it, something like regret, “and while you probably don’t _feel_ hungry I can bet you feel dizzy and _weak_.”

“Been reading, have we?” Ardyn said, slightly petulant, but then he froze at the way Somnus looked away with his lips turned down and his gaze off to the side to some distance that Ardyn couldn’t name.

Eventually Somnus shook his head and muttered, “I know what it feels like, is all,” and a part of Ardyn went _cold_ at the thought.

 _Who dared—_ the Scourge raged and given the sucked in sharp breath from Somnus it figured that Ardyn wore the darkness plain upon his face. He struggled with it—the plain _fear_ in his brother’s face was a heady sort of thing that almost felt like _addiction_ except it also made Somnus look so horribly young while being so horribly old that Ardyn had to close his eyes.

He sucked in breath after breath, held it, released it, only to repeat until the chittering of _fury_ bit at the edges and not at the forefront of his mind. This was Somnus after all—no one starved him, Ardyn could be certain of that, which meant for some twisted reason Somnus perhaps starved himself once or more and what could’ve caused _that_ Ardyn didn’t know. At any rate he calmed himself and when he looked up it was to see Somnus off in that middle-distance again, entirely elsewhere, except his hands gave away the fear that still threatened him in the manner in which they shook.

Ardyn didn’t apologize; Somnus didn’t apologize. They were both horrible bastards like that as they snipped at one another and dug into old wounds with bitterness and rage. Ardyn sighed.

“Is it too much to ask you to help me up?” Ardyn said bitterly, even as he grasped his fingers around the small table and worked to pull himself to his feet and off of the floor. Somnus shrugged.

“Won’t be much use,” the younger mumbled, words half under his breath. His hands clenched into his pants until the knuckles were white and they trembled less from fear and more from the strain—and maybe rage. “I can’t exactly get out of this chair.”

Ardyn jerked his head around to Somnus with wide eyes, already on his feet even if he wanted to topple back over as vertigo rushed to make him feel like standing up was actually standing _down_ and swimming through molasses. It took him a moment longer to regain his sense of balance, but once he had Ardyn stumbled forward with an almost drunken gait as he tried to work limbs that hadn’t been used in so long—eventually they gave back out underneath him but that was _fine_ because when he did topple to his knees it was at Somnus’ feet with his hands grasped around Somnus’ legs in a way that should hurt. His fingers bore down and grasped, but Somnus said nothing aside from a scowl across his lips so familiar that it _hurt Ardyn_ to see.

“You can’t walk,” Ardyn said, voice a whisper, and he watched how Somnus grit his teeth and ground his jaw together.

“Neither can _you_ , asshole,” Somnus grumbled. “Unless you call that flailing _walking_.”

Ardyn snorted but squeezed his hands tighter and watched how Somnus stared down at their grasp upon his legs with something inscrutable in his gaze. “You can’t even feel me hurting you, can you.”

Somnus reached out and hesitantly touched Ardyn’s hands, dug his fingers between Ardyn’s palms and his legs, but he didn’t pry them off. He merely touched, light and hesitant, even as he said, “No.”

“How—”

Somnus huffed. “I defied the Gods. How else?”

Ardyn couldn’t stop the burst of rage at that—the words so casually said, as if they didn’t matter at all. _Defied the Gods_ , by the Six what had Somnus done without Ardyn there to reign him in and remind him to always— _always_ —be deferent to the Astrals. One did not push and pry and question the whims of beings that could strike them from this very Star on a mere _chance_ but then—but then Somnus had always been foolhardy and Ardyn—but _this_ , this was like being spit in the face by the Six to whom still held his loyalty despite it all, despite the pain and desperation that suffused his darkened soul. Ardyn still had hope that one day they would see fit to let him die, even if for now they saw fit to punish him because he didn’t do it _right_ nevermind that Ardyn doubted he could’ve, in the end.

Yet still they stole Somnus’ legs from him, and Ardyn felt _fury_. Had not Ardyn sacrificed enough between the two of them so that Somnus should not? Or did the Six still feel that punishment was deserved upon them both—one for their piety and one for their lack? Ardyn had thought—but perhaps Ardyn had thought wrong and that in the intervening years the Six would deign his interference as _faulty_ , especially if Somnus truly did decide to tell the Gods to go and fuck right off with their grand and meddling plans like he so threatened as a child more than once.

 _“What use are Gods that care not for us insignificant creatures upon this Star?”_ Somnus hissed in his ear. “ _We are but ants to them, toys to their bidding. Why do I owe them my allegiance—they who know **nothing** of the world of mortal men?”_ His breath ghosted Ardyn’s neck and Ardyn stiffened as he struggled—

“Ardyn?” Somnus said, voice hesitant and quiet in the way of a child and Ardyn _breathed_ even as it felt like his vision darkened and spots danced at his eyes. He choked on his breath and pressed his face into Somnus’ knees and keened faintly. “Hey, uh,” Somnus fumbled over his words, awkward and unsure of himself—and it felt like Ardyn was dealing with his little brother again, fifteen and fumbling around with his first crush. “It’s—it’s okay?”

Ardyn trembled.

“Fuck. Right. It’s not okay but…but I knew it was gonna happen,” Somnus mumbled, sucked in a breath between his teeth. “Not like I was gonna be able to walk forever.”

“You should have been,” Ardyn said into his knees, words muffled. “If I had been—”

“What?” Somnus jerked in his seat and Ardyn could feel the hesitant fingers at the edge of his hair. “What? No, Ardyn I—it was my fault. It wasn’t— _fuck_.” Somnus’ hands shook. “You didn’t send a Miralith after me, you fucking shithead,” Somnus eventually concluded, voice distant, and just the slightest bit unsure even as Ardyn jerked back and stared up at Somnus with wide and surprised eyes.

“I— _no!_ ” Ardyn said, voice raising as he leaned forward until he practically climbed himself into Somnus’ lap so that their nose touched as he hissed and spit and _snarled_. “Do you really think I had any of that—that they would have— _I was not tainted then_ , Somnus!”

Somnus jerked, surprise shifted across his face, and then he looked away with a half-mumbled, “Right.” He breathed in and relaxed slightly, still stiff and wary but less so and Ardyn frowned in confusion—“Right. I—forgot.”

“You forgot,” Ardyn said dryly, and Somnus ducked his head.

Neither said anything to one another for a long while until Somnus grasped at the wheels and pulled backward. Ardyn let him, confused and wrung out from the entire conversation wherein nothing was said at _all_.

“Eat your soup,” Somnus mumbled. “It’s probably gotten cold,” and he forcefully wheeled himself to the door. He fumbled for it, hands trembling and shaking and a part of Ardyn wanted to get up and tug Somnus out of the throne—the _chair_ —and bundle his brother up and away and whisper apologies to him and beg for forgiveness. A part of him longed to rip out Somnus’ throat as visions of Aera’s broken and bleeding form crossed his mind. Ardyn stayed still while Somnus struggled with the door, and then watched as Somnus wheeled from the room.

It felt strange; Somnus defied the Gods and was burned by it. Ardyn was not in his prison. His brother brought him _food_. Perhaps in the end he was still dreaming, Ardyn thought, but then his hip throbbed and the smell of the soup reached his nose and his gut churned in a terrible way and Ardyn merely stared down at his hands in contemplative thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noctis left the room a little struck by the thought that yes, Ardyn really was calling him Somnus, and no, Ardyn did not blame him for not killing him permanently like was Prophesied because Ardyn didn't _remember_ even if for half of the conversation it felt like it. Because instead yeah Noctis had to suffer an injury as a child that nearly killed him, that fucking _Somnus_ had at one point also suffered as a child unless he read that whole bit completely ass backward. He might've. Noctis could never quite tell with Ardyn because truth and lies were subjective and messy and Ardyn breathed both like they were the complete opposite thing.


	6. Chapter 6

Ardyn spent nearly a week he woke up alone. Despite that first moment when Somnus brought soup—and he did eventually eat the soup, something wholly Not-Lucian and far spicier than Ardyn realized from the smell alone—his younger brother had not returned with food since. Celestia Ulric would stop by and leave food outside the door with a faint knock and a murmur of words that Ardyn couldn’t understand, but food would be there and it would be spicy and yet still gentle on his stomach. Ardyn didn’t know what to think of it.

Somnus still avoided him, but really to Ardyn that was nothing new. He could step out of the room, and technically he had full run of the house although Ardyn avoided the people within it like how Somnus avoided him. He may have chosen to stay in this room, alone, and leave only for his daily ablutions that he might’ve abused a little bit because—because— _Six_ how long had it been since Ardyn felt the gentle touch of water upon him? How long had it been since Ardyn felt truly _clean?_

The first time he’d stood under the spray of water in the bathing chamber—a strange and small space that was so vastly different to the bathing pools of home—Ardyn near scorched himself in scalding water just because he could _feel_ it. It reminded him yet again that this wasn’t a dream—he wasn’t in Angelgard anymore. He wasn’t chained and bleeding out slowly while the sun burned at his skin and Somnus _laughed_ —

_—“Aren’t you, though?”—_

—and that meant the world, really.

More than once Ardyn ghosted through the halls of the small home. His own room still felt like a prison—could it really be his, when it seemed to be nothing more than an out-of-the-way closet with a bed shoved inside? He dug through the boxes and the wardrobe with half-a-thought on the second day and found plenty of old and discarded things and it made him _wonder_ —

_—“Don’t you like it?” Somnus once hissed, hands dug into the wine-red of his locks until it **hurt**. “Such a pretty little prison for a forgotten thing like you.”—_

—but Ardyn shoved those thoughts down like the nightmares that plagued his sleep at night. Instead he ghosted through the walls and hug corners and listened as Celestia and her husband Nox spoke in strange tongues, and Somnus sometimes spoke with them. If he ran into Somnus in the halls he’d stop, and stare at the wheeled chair, and sneer until Somnus turned the other way in silence.

This lasted a week until Somnus seemed to have enough of it and wheeled his way into the room where Ardyn lay upon the bed and tossed a citrus fruit up and down in thoughtful silence. For a while no one said anything and Ardyn felt content to just ignore it—ignore Somnus there in the doorway, ignore the faint itch along his skin that felt like nails that dug into the nape of his neck as he lay down. Years upon years ago Somnus would come to Ardyn sometimes like this that it felt so out-of-place, so dream and memory-like that Ardyn didn’t really register it at first.

_—young, seventeen with a shiny new House and Name and he isn’t able to help it as he lays here with a grin on his face and a bit of fruit in hand; tosses it up and down while Som stares and stares and stares until there is whispers on the wind of Som’s words._

_Som’s fourteen and gangly and hates all this pompous nonsense that Ardyn wraps himself in because it means Ardyn’s not here most days and its stupid. Ardyn healing keeps them fed and gives them a House and a Name and its stupid because all Ardyn wants when he’s here is to sit and play with fruit. Som grumbles and hisses and eventually the words reach Ardyn who catches the fruit in hand and—_

“What?” Ardyn blinked and turned his head toward Somnus who stared at him tiredly.

“I said do you want to get some fresh air?” Somnus asked, and for a moment Ardyn was between Here and _There_ before it slammed home that Somnus is asking him to go _outside_.

Outside, where the sun shined and _burned_ and Ardyn sneered even as he smoothly slid up until he’s seated on the edge of the bed, fruit abandoned. “Oh yes, _splendid_ idea,” Ardyn said, and climbed to his feet. If Somnus wanted to play his game this way, then Ardyn would _play_.

Somnus frowned at him, like he couldn’t understand the juxtaposition between Ardyn’s face and his words—like something puzzled him, but Ardyn brushed that aside even as he gestured to Somnus to lead the way and Somnus— _does_. Without a word Somnus turned himself around and wheeled out of the room with much more grace than their first meeting like this.

Ardyn watched him, made a mental note that the wheeled chair seemed different to the last one, and sauntered after him with long steps. Somnus never quite reached Ardyn’s towering height; curtesy of their different fathers, Ardyn presumed. His longer legs and longer gait meant that quite quickly Ardyn came to crowd at Somnus’ back, and given the way Somnus stiffened he didn’t quite feel comfortable with it.

Ardyn grinned, unrepentant, when Somnus glanced back at him with a furrowed brow. After a second Somnus huffed and tried to wheel faster—until Ardyn took the handles on the chair and _pushed_ and the yelp was heavenly to his ears. Ardyn basked in the surprise out of Somnus’ voice, at the way Somnus stuttered out a, “W-What are you—” as Ardyn pushed him down the hall and toward the door that he opened with a trick of magic because _why not?_

The chair clattered and dropped out onto a dirt path from the front porch and into the sheltered daylight and Ardyn had to pause on the edge of the stoop, hands clasped around the wheelchair in surprise as he stared up and _up_ —that was the _sky_ wasn’t it? Such a grey-filled, clouded thing and not at all what Ardyn had expected. He raised one hand out into the trail of the faded light, stepped away from Somnus’ chair and out onto the dirt packed earth and grass that his toes dug into—the _feel_ of it, the tickle between callouses that almost made him want to _laugh_.

A choked cry left Ardyn instead as he turned to look at Somnus with naked confusion and fear. This didn’t _hurt_. Wasn’t it supposed to hurt?

Somnus smiled, a small sort of wry thing as he murmured, “The storms blowing in off the coast. It’s supposed to last a few days. I figured a clouded sky would be gentler.”

Ardyn looked away. He couldn’t understand it. His chest felt tight—he couldn’t _breathe_ for a moment and his eyes stung. Was this not a moment to torture him with? To introduce him to the sky and see him burn, see him _scream?_ Had that not been Somnus’ plan? Except Somnus said he thought this would be _gentler_ —thought of the fact that Ardyn couldn’t bare the sun which he should damn well know, given how he positioned him in that prison.

In the distance there were sounds of children playing, words that Ardyn couldn’t recognize. Somnus turned his wheeled chair and made a gesture.

“The Ostium’s,” Somnus said softly. “They have…four kids? According to Madam Ulric? With a fifth along the way, I think.” Ardyn glanced toward where Somnus gestured and caught sight of a little boy and little girl running around, russet hair braided and thick about their heads while a slightly older teen chased them with bright red hair and a teasing smile about his face. The teen turned, then waved, and said something cheerful Ardyn didn’t know. Somnus waved back.

They were Not Lucian, Ardyn could see that plainly. He struggled with his thoughts and his words for a moment, struggled to speak. “Where—are we, Somnus,” Ardyn said, voice hoarse, because none of this made sense.

A part of Ardyn longed for the familiar chains, the familiar dreams, the familiar morbid touch of Somnus that _hurt_ and not— _this_. This unfamiliar setting with a growing unfamiliar brother who was both softer and harder at the edges and broken down in a way Ardyn couldn’t name but made him _ache_. This Somnus that reminded him of a little boy who didn’t want his big brother to spend all his time _working_ to put food on their table and gave them a Name and a House to call their own.

“We’re a little ways inland from the coast of mainland Galahd,” Somnus said, and he gave the information willing and expanded when Ardyn made a faint sound of confusion in the back of his throat. “Technically we’re still in Lucis—just, not Lucis proper, really. More, uhm, Lucis territory? Adjacent?” Somnus scrubbed at his brow and shook his head. “I don’t know how to—Galahd is. Separate. Loosely allied, I guess.”

Ardyn swallowed, then said, “I don’t…remember. A—Galahd.”

Somnus’ look was sad, his eyes were narrowed down and his lips pressed together even as he _smiled_ and Ardyn—Ardyn had to look away as Somnus said, “Yeah. I…I don’t think Galahd was really around when—” Somnus cut himself off with a grimace, and Ardyn closed his eyes.

“How—how long, Somnus?” Ardyn asked. “How long has it-it—”

Somnus didn’t answer; to Ardyn that was telling enough.

* * *

Noctis left Ardyn just outside the stoop of the Ulric’s house and wheeled himself over to where he caught sight of Nox as the man came up the dirt pathway toward the house with his most recent hunt over his shoulder. Noctis couldn’t recognize the beast Nox had slain, but presumed it was something Galahdian version of the normal fauna Noctis had grown used to on his trip around the world. He still kept one eye on Ardyn even as he offered Nox a smile.

“I see the Ostium’s came through, then, Stormsent?” Nox said cheerfully as Noctis ducked his head and ran his fingers along the wheels of the newest wheelchair.

“Yes,” Noctis said, words light. He found it much easier to get around on the lighter designed chair, the wheels much thicker for his grip and they had additional, smaller wheels to help him turn which he appreciated in the house with sharp corners. “It’s much easier to use, thank you.”

Nox waved a hand, said, “Ah, no pelt off my hide for it.” Nox came to a rest beside Noctis who turned the wheelchair around to catch sight of where Nox’s gaze had drifted off to, only to see Ardyn still standing there in a little clouded ray of sun with his eyes closed and an almost peaceful look across his face. “See your brother decided to join the world around him.”

Noctis pursed his lips. “He is—a little, yes,” Noctis said, and cast his gaze back over to the Ostium kids whom began to finally notice Ardyn in their midst. “I thought some fresh air would be good for him.”

“A little cajoling never hurt anyone,” Nox agreed lightly. “Will he join us for the meal?”

Noctis shrugged, a little unsure given the revelations of the day and what wasn’t said between them. He still wasn’t quite used to how Ardyn looked at him— _spoke_ to him. How he could be caustic one second, very much the Ardyn Noctis could remember—the Ardyn who pushed Noctis through hell to ensure enough hatred and rage would be there so that when it came to it, when it came down to that final fight between them—

His hands tightened their grip on the wheels of the chair with the memory of Ardyn on the ground, wet and dying, and—at peace. Noctis swallowed heavily and forced the image from his mind, forced the memories down and under and swallowed the bitterness whole. He knew, logically, that the peace Ardyn felt then was only arbitrary. It all depended upon Noctis ending the Scourge forever—to wipe it and Ardyn from all existence and, in the end, Noctis failed even that. He couldn’t. Despite the pain and the bitterness and the _ache_ in his heart whenever Ardyn looked at him—at the urge to run and cower or to take a blade and just _cut_ until Ardyn wasn’t smiling anymore, couldn’t speak to him in that lilting terror of a voice anymore—Noctis locked it all away and ignored it as best he could. There wasn’t time for any of that.

Later—later when Ardyn didn’t call him _Somnus_ —Noctis would break down. Later—and far, far away from the man, away from this self-imposed duty. For now Noctis had much more important things to focus on, and that kept him going when the nights seemed to be full of bitter dreams and choked off screams.

**Author's Note:**

> Have questions? Want to know more? Just want to scream at me? Visit my [Tumblr](http://xadoheandterra.tumblr.com).
> 
> Spoilers and/or random thoughts for this fic? Visit the [fic tag](http://xadoheandterra.tumblr.com/tagged/fic:%20bitter%20night).


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